Heroes are Made by the Paths they Choose
by Flying Jay
Summary: When the Avengers are set against Loki again they lose, badly. In fact, Tony's pretty sure they died... So then why're they waking up in a world where heroes never existed and they can't remember a thing? Will they recover their memories in time to get a second chance, or die trying?
1. Until Such Time as the World Ends…

**Until Such Time as the World Ends…**

The world was panic and chaos and pain. Darkness was pressing in on all sides, lit up by artillery and cracks of red through the trees. A dark form was dashing through the trees, almost invisible. He tried to call out but his voice was swallowed in the din.

Gun shots. Yells. More shooting.

A strike of lightning erupted from the sky and for a moment the world was on fire. There was a rush of red to his left. Someone screamed. Fighting to move, he found only frozen metal clamping down on his limbs. There was a voice in his ear. It came out garbled and soft. It did nothing to quell the absolute, blinding fear building in his chest. There was another scream. Feminine… definitely.

"What the hell is happening?" the voice finally broke through into his murky brain. A single demand, expected to be answered. But he had nothing to offer.

Another burst of lightning. Another scream- no a roar. A monster! He could hear it through the trees, getting closer and closer.

Yells. They sounded agonizing. Someone was screaming. She wouldn't stop. Just endless screaming, stealing the words away from his ears.

The words _down_ and _critical_ and _where is he we need to leave now where the fuck is he_ reached him.

For some reason "language" bounced around in his brain for a few seconds before pain pushed it away. Damn it hurt! His head was beating and his leg was on fire and he _just wanted to get up!_

Another scream.

Yelling.

Gun shots.

Lightning.

Red.

Nothing.


	2. I Am Iron Man

**I am Iron Man**

Tony leapt from his bed, gasping for breath. Adrenalin pumped through his veins, leaving his whole body shaking and slick with sweat.

 _Damn what the hell?_

The dream had felt so real… he'd never had one so vivid before. His nights were consistently filled with alcohol, mechanical problems, woman, and computer code, usually in that order. He didn't _dream_ like a normal person.… He went through fragments of problems and riddles…

Never like this.

It felt so real.

So dark.

He shook himself sharply. He was being ridiculous. He'd probably just downed too much scotch. That was it.

His gaze flickered around the room. However determined his brain was to keep rational and calm, his heart was still pounding. God it'd been an awful dream. Even now the shadows morphed into trees, the flicker of car lights tracing where the lightning had struck. Even his covers, thrown to the floor, seemed to shift and breathe like the restless monster… hurtling through the trees… smashing everyone in its way… bodies flying…

 _Okay, seriously… what the hell?_

He groaned quietly, pushing himself off the bed and stumbling to the door. There was no way he'd be able to sleep now anyway. He really should've taken the girl up on her offer… what was her name? Sara? No… Veronica? Unimportant. Best time to get a nightmare was with a girl… Comforting cuddles usually turned to making out… which would nearly always turn into something much better.

Another groan. "Jarvis, what time is it?"

"7:00 Sir. And Ms. Potts has asked me to remind you about your party in ten hours. She would also like you to please begin the night sober this time."

"Really? She said please?"

"I'm paraphrasing, Sir."

"Thanks Jarvis." Tony couldn't help but chuckle, sauntering towards his bar. He was ready for his routine. Some scotch. The lab. Some whisky. A party. Just like every day.

Even better, actually.

There was no meeting to mess up.

Still, he couldn't help but rub at his chest as he snatched up a bottle. The sting of his dream still haunted him. He couldn't help the lingering feeling of ill ease even as he downed his first gulp.


	3. I'm Just a Kid from Brooklyn

**I'm Just a Kid from Brooklyn**

There was darkness. Just darkness. Trees loomed around him on all sides, twisted into ugly sculptures, their limbs hooked like fingers reaching for him. Above, their leaves tangled together into a massive canopy, stealing away the stars and moon. He couldn't see. He could barely hear. Even now the sounds of bullets were getting father and father away.

How had he lost them?

He didn't even hear her when she started screaming. His head was so filled with the sounds of his own labored breathing, and the guns, and the darkness ( _It was so dark… like the ocean… the ice closing around him…_ ) that it wasn't until she stopped that he realized. One moment noise. The next silence.

"Is everyone okay?" he asked, finger to his ear, hesitation in his voice.

Static answered.

For the first time since the fight had broken out Captain America was afraid. He opened his mouth to repeat the question. Just as he filled his lungs with air there was a flash.

Not lightning. Not this time.

Red was trickling through the trees ( _like waves…_ ) spilling through the darkness ( _cold as ice_ ) and suddenly he was very, very afraid…

"What the hell is happening?"

Static.

A strike of lightning.

There was more screaming.

And then it was in his mouth. His nose. His throat.

( _Cold… drowning… No! No! No!)_

Another scream.

Yelling.

Gun shots.

Lightning.

Red.

Nothing.

* * *

Steve was never going drinking with Bucky again. Ever.

His head was pounding relentlessly, pain driving straight through his skull like an ice pick. Alcohol always gave him bad dreams and even worse hangovers. And yet without fail he was always persuaded that going out was actually a good idea.

He groaned, lurching forward. The thick quilt dropped off his skinny frame in a heap, leaving his chest bare to the elements. Goosebumps pricked his arms and he fought back a shiver as he scrambled out of bed.

 _Oh winter, how I despise you_.

Although October had barely ended, a nasty chill had settled in already. He could already imagine the icy storms sealing his dreary city in the snow globe they called winter. A shark spike of panic caught his breath at the idea. The dream must have had a bigger impact on him than he thought…

It'd been a weird one… Dreams about war weren't uncommon for him. Bucky's stories and his favorite movies usually got the better of his imagination. But this one had been… well, freaky. He'd supposed the red stuff could've been some sort of red gas he'd unconsciously hear about on the internet or TV. But it hadn't felt like that…

 _I blame Bucky… It's always his fault…_

Good thing he knew exactly how to get his revenge.

Steve snagged his phone from the bedside table, continuing to make his way into the kitchen with a sort of pathetic limping motion. The cell lit up, sending a new wave of pain through his skull. It took more than a few blinks and a lot of groaning, but finally his eyes decided to cooperate and his head eased enough to focus.

It was 7:00am exactly. Perfect.

The number was punched in. The dial tone rang. And then…

"Fuck. You."

"Good morning sunshine," Steve snickered into the receiver.

"I should've shut my phone off. I always forget to shut my phone off. Fuck you. Do you know what time it is?"

"Time to get a watch?" he offered. As his left hand balanced the phone, his right began its quest for a cup of coffee.

"Fuck you, Rogers."

"Language, Barnes."

"I'm sorry… did you just say language?"

"It slipped."

"I swear you belong in the 40's. No one says "language" except middle school teachers."

"I'll keep that in mind. What time's the thing tonight?"

"Starks party?"

"Right. That," Steve muttered, only half listening. His quest for caffeine had been completed and his reward was ready to scold his throat. The warm smell of coffee filled his nostrils, warmth spreading through his fingertips deliciously. There was one good thing about winter. You could never have hot coffee in the summer. He pulled the cup up to his lips, hand tightening just slightly…

 _Clink- Smash_

"Fuck…"

"And then we'll get a cab to- Language!" Bucky gasped mid-sentence, and Steve could just picture the flourish of his wrist as he threw himself back in a faint so theatrical Nicholas Cage could do better.

"Shut up. I broke my coffee…"

"Wow… you did it… you actually sound more pathetic then you look."

"Shut up," he growled again. "I don't look _pathetic_." Steve had been underweight, short, scrawny, and pretty much completely pitiful since he'd been born. Too frail to really do anything about it, it'd always been a sore subject. Who'd been stuck in New York while his best friend was shipped off to Afghanistan? Steve. Who'd been closed up in a sketch book while Bucky learned to fight and protect people? Steve. Who couldn't even fight off a group of bullies on the street while Bucky took on an army? You guessed it. Steve.

"Yeah, whatever. Just be ready by 4:30, alright?"

He grunted and hung up, too preoccupied with the shards littered across his palm to offer a goodbye. Miraculously he hadn't drawn blood. But still… they weren't old cups… Strange it would shatter like that. Especially in his hand.

If he didn't know any better he would've guessed he'd been the one to break it just out of sheer strength.

And how crazy would that have been?

 **Please review! I'd love to know if this is a story I should continue.**


	4. I Understood That Reference

**I Understood that Reference**

"Wow" seemed to be the appropriate response… In fact, Steve was pretty sure it was the only response. How else could you describe the palace that was Stark Tower?

It loomed over the city and pooled into the clouds like some sort of benevolent guardian. Stacks and stacks of steel on glass on steel. The whole thing was frozen in the earth: blue and gold all over.

It was impressive to say the least.

"Who'd you kill to get an invitation to this place?"

"Shut up, Steve," Bucky muttered, eyeing the tower like it was a cobra about to strike. "Stark sells the army weapons. And I'm the only one they could sucker into going to this thing. Don't want to offend the guy with the big toys…" He said the last part bitterly. If it were possible for a full grown man in a fully decorated uniform to look like the child, Bucky achieved it.

"That bad?"

"You know how you always tell me not to believe the press?"

"Yeah."

"You'll make an exception when you meet this guy."

With a sigh of a man about to go into battle he stumbled out of the car. Steve followed, just a tad more graceful.

Leaving his apartment, he'd felt confident in his midnight blue button down and dress pants. But now, as they were swallowed by the living, breathing mass filling Stark's door, he felt creepily naked. The woman's jewelry rang like bells and their bird chirps filled his ears with shrill notes and piercing laughs. The men were worse. They stunk of perfumes and gold and quietly wagged their tails at their wives and then growled when their backs were turned. Every single one of them were dressed like royalty, with thick silk tuxedos and jeweled skirts.

"Hey, Barnes." Steve almost jumped out of his skin at the smooth voice tickling his ear. What he did manage however, was a very masculine and dignified squeak. By the time he turned around the woman was laughing her ass off. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to spook your friend there."

"Its fine," Bucky, chuckling himself, "He scares easy. Comes with the extra-small pants and child shoes."

"Shut up."

"Aww don't be that way."

"You're such a child," he muttered, shaking a pouting Bucky off his arm. But a smile managed to sneak its way onto his face anyway. He could never stay angry.

"Steve Rogers this is Jane Foster. She's my…err…"

"Ex?" Jane offered, extending her hand forward. He took it with a warm grin. She _did_ seem Bucky's type. She was well-built, her thin yellow dress fitting snugly in all the right places. Her hair, dark and streaked with honey highlights curled around her shoulders like a smooth, silk waterfall. And yet there was that intelligent glint in her eyes, the clever curl of her lips that his friend couldn't seem to live without. For some reason Bucky loved them smart.

"We, err, dated for a month or so, nothing serious."

"Careful there. You might actually hurt my feelings- Oh. Right!" Jane grasped at the stranger joining them, a broad grin splitting her face into two.

Steve had always been tiny and he was used to being dwarfed, but this man… this man made him feel like an ant. His muscles bulged underneath his shirt, buttons clinging for dear life in a failed attempt to cover his handsomely sculpted chest. Long blonde hair was swept into a clean ponytail and stubble still graced his strong jaw. "Boys, this is Thor."

* * *

Steve had a problem. He couldn't get drunk. He was nursing his eighth glass of the night and he felt _fine_. Better than fine actually… He was great. The world was clear, he was awake and the lingering hangover from the night before had completely evaporated. Which was all fine and dandy. Except he couldn't get _completely wasted_. What was the point of coming to these parties if he couldn't enjoy the wine worth ten grand and the fifty year old scotch?

Bucky didn't seem to be having a problem with it. At that moment he was practically swinging off of Thor's arm, the two giggling like school girls. They'd started a drinking contest not ten minutes ago and had drawn quite a crowd. Jane's new "boy toy," as he'd heard the (jealous) party goers whispering, seemed to have a talent for putting away whiskey. A talent that rivaled Bucky's.

He couldn't help but watch them with envy. Always the lightweight, he should've been dizzy and warm by his first drink. But he felt _fine_.

"Not enjoying the party?"

"Hm?" He jolted, training his eyes away from his (defective) drink and back to the party. Before him was a man just a foot taller than himself. Dressed in an expensive suit, he wore it carelessly, tie loose and collar popped up. Though his thick black air was frosted with greys there was a youthful twinkle in his eyes that screamed of mischief. "Hi. You know who I am."

He snorted. At least Tony Stark didn't fake modesty. "Steve Rogers. I'm with James Barnes."

"The military's sacrifice?"

"Yessir."

"Not a fan of games?"

"Games? Oh! The drinking thing? No, I just know how it's going to end. It looks like Thor's got some skills."

"Thor?"

"Jane Foster's date? He's visiting from Europe I think…"

"Well, those Europeans know their liquor," Tony muttered, hoisting himself onto a bar stool. "What about you? You're looking at that glass like it's offended you."

Steve shrugged, tossing his drink back on the table. "Not a big drinker."

"Pity. It's good alcohol." He raised his own glass as if to prove it, downing the entire thing in one big gulp. Steve nodded politely, not really sure how to answer. He settled on attempting to stifle a yawn instead, desperately trying to hide it in the crook of his arm. _Great, now he's going to think I'm rude…_

"Rough night last night or something? It's too early to be yawning. And I now it's not my fault. I'm great company."

"Err yeah…" _Well I can't tell him about the drinking now!_ "Just weird dreams I guess. I blame the weather. It's been horrible hasn't it? I hate winter."

"Dreams? Huh, weird. I had one myself last night. It was great."

He smiled at the host, nodding for him to go on. Just as long as he wasn't doing the talking he was happy. He wasn't really sure how to go on with the conversation. He felt like he should treat Tony either extremely coldly or extremely respectfully. The rumors he'd heard about the man were outstanding. To put it kindly he was a billionaire playboy spoiled brat. His money went towards nothing but his own company, his bad habits, and his woman. But they were in _his_ home and at _his_ party. And Steve felt like it was difficult to remember all that when the man was right in front of him, treating him not only with kindness but weirdly like an old friend. And besides, he couldn't help but instantly like Tony. It was almost like they'd known each other for years instead of minutes.

"Alright I was in the middle of this forest. Pitch black. Like, can't see your hand in front of your face black. And it wasn't raining or anything, but there was all this lightning. Every three seconds. And there was gunshots and screaming. It was pretty freaky. Oh! And the best part. Ok this red smoke was everywhere- …Hey, are you alright?"

Steve didn't feel alright. At all. In fact he felt quite sick.

"Hello? Rogers? Your face has gone white."

"Did you black out after the, err, the red smoke got to you?"

Yeah… How'd you know?"

"I had that dream too."

 **Thanks to Ravena16 and** **Lilac Winters21 I'm going to continue this story** **Please review to let me know your thoughts!**


	5. There's only one God ma'am …

**T** **here's only one God ma'am …**

"Thor!" Steve gasped, lurching forward, snatching at his covers. It was freezing, again. He had been in the throes of a strange and horrible nightmare _again_. And he wished he could just blame alcohol again too. By the end of the night he'd managed just a light buzz after _ten_ drinks and at least _three_ shots with Tony.

But there was a way to make sure.

He snatched up his phone, searching through his contacts, a plan already forming in his mind.

If Tony had the dream, then there was something weird going on.

If he hadn't, then it was a really strange one time occurrence and they went back to their lives like nothing happened.

He was already doubting the apparent miracle of the night before. Sure, it'd seemed crazy then, with a half-drunk billionaire staring at him with a drowsy fire in his eyes. Tony had practically jumped him as soon as he'd described his own dream, babbling about the theory of shared consciousness and all sorts of scientific experiments. He'd been planning his Nobel Prize speech by the second round of shots. And Steve had drank it all up (both the craziness and the liquor) because who wouldn't when a genius was shouting at you about the mysteries of the universe?

But now, with a clearer head and in the quiet peacefulness of his own bedroom it all seemed so much simpler. It'd been a similar dream. That was all. The alcohol had spurred Tony into dramatizing the whole thing and Steve had been spurred on by all the enthusiasm and peculiarities.

Nothing strange was happening.

"Hello?" Tony's muffled voice spilled from the speaker, tumbling like whisky. "Who' this?"

"It's Steve Rogers? From last night?"

"I didn't sleep with your wife did I?"

"Err… no."

"Girlfriend?"

"What? No you didn't sleep with anyone I know. We were talking about our dreams last night? Don't you remember?"

"How drunk was I?"

"Very."

"Alright, alright," Tony groaned. "Lemme think… Dreams…. Steve…. Rogers…. Dream- Wait! Wait, I remember. Sorry. Right. Yes. You had another dream right? Same one?"

"Yes! Yes, how'd you know?"

"I err… Oh my god my head hurts. Can I call you back in an hour? Please?"

"Sure?"

There came no answer except the dial tone.

 **Break line**

Tony was woken by the sound of ringing. Really annoying ringing. The high pitched kind the drove bullets into your head, especially with a hangover. He groaned, stuffing his face back into the pillow, hoping the world would just _go the fuck away_.

It didn't work.

"Sir, Steve Rogers is on the phone."

"Jarvis, get that would you?" There was a pause of utmost quiet…and then.

"Hello?"

"That's not what I meant Jarvis."

"What?"

"Nothing, sorry Steve. What's up?"

"Glad to hear you remember this time."

"Huh?"

"… Never mind. You said you'd call me back in an hour. It's been two so I called. You wanted to talk about the dreams, remember?"

Tony frowned, racking his brains. Was he up two hours ago? He vaguely remembered lightning, thunder, a tall figure with rather long, kind of girly hair… And another shot of whisky when he'd woken up.

"Did you dream about anything new? I think I had the same one… I can't really remember. There was someone else there though," he told him, chewing on his lip at the thought. It felt odd. Everything felt odd.

"I think I dreamt something new too. I can't be too sure. But I woke up thinking about Thor…"

"Didn't take you for a Norse Mythology enthusiast."

"Norse Mythology... Huh… Just… come over in an hour alright?" Steve sounded annoyed. And tired. He didn't know why. After all, he was the one who was woken up. And the one with the horrible hangover. But things were getting strange. From what he could gather they'd had the same dream twice now.

So if X, the dream, equaled X, the same dream from Rogers side, and another variable, Y, the Norse Mythology Steve was talking about and Tony only sort of remembered, then XY=XY. So they needed to find Y to get closer to finding X? _I think I just confused myself. That isn't even real math. I don't think I could find X if that was a real problem.. We need more variables really…_

He was so deep in thought he had almost forgot Rogers was talking. He tuned in just in time to hear the address and an order not to be late. Then he hung up and was once again released into beautiful silence.

 **Break line**

"Oh my god."

"What?" Steve asked. He looked a little wary of Tony, taking a good two steps back so that he could slip through the doorway.

"I've been here before." He had! He knew he had. He knew this apartment. Everything was as he remembered. There was no TV, but instead a record player pushed up against the wall. No decorations except old world war two photos and vintage paintings. No electronics of any kind, just books. Stacks and stacks of books. There was just one thing missing... "Where's your army helmet?" Sure enough, it was missing from its place wedged between clusters of books. He was so sure it had to be there!

He felt like he was going insane… Since he'd had the first dream there had been an increasing feeling of horrific _wrongness_.

"I don't own a World War II helmet…"

"Yes… Yes you do. Don't you remember?"

"No…" Steve looked lost, peering at him with an eyebrow quirked and a deep from etched into his jaw. There was a moment of silence between them, and then he moved, snatching a book from his couch. "Look at this."

Tony obeyed, leaning over his shoulder (Not at all difficult. Steve couldn't be more than five feet tall). He was being shown a book of Norse Mythology. On one page the name "Thor" was printed elegantly with tiny, cramped text filling the rest. He skipped over that. The following page was more interesting. A giant of a man stood, posed with a hammer, ready to smash a giant blue beast. Thick locks of gold swirled around his head, the rich red cape flowing from his shoulders. Tony whistled.

"Is that-?"

"Yep..."


End file.
